


Hers

by lindsey_grissom



Series: Ring ‘Verse [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, canon AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 15:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13906935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsey_grissom/pseuds/lindsey_grissom
Summary: Nothing is secret from Mrs Hughes, the ring is no different.





	Hers

She had long stopped expecting to receive it, that little ring of silver and gold.

  
The one Mr Carson returned with all those years ago; before Mr Blakely retired, before the evening walks stopped, the talks over tea in the servant’s hall — chairs tucked close, knees touching.

  
She had hoped for it then, before she even knew he had it. Hoped and dreamed and for a while she was sure.

  
There had been no formal courtship, no whispered promises or hurried kisses. He had never taken her hand or tucked her arm in his as they walked back from church. They wrote neither love letters nor St Valentine’s cards and yet she had hoped.

  
But Mr Blakely had retired, and Mr Carson had replaced her Charles.

  
{She had wondered, in bed one night after he had scolded her for her laughter in the corridor that afternoon, his words harsh, his tone cold and severe, if perhaps she had imagined it all. Imagined the smiles, the laughter, the little juggling act he would perform just for her, late at night when she was so tired with this life. Had she imagined the way he looked at her, the hovering of his hand at her back when they met in a doorway? 

  
Tears falling silently on her cheeks she lay awake and said goodbye; to him, to that future she dreamed of — little girls and boys with dark heads of curls, blue eyes and dimpled chins — to any life outside of service.}

  
Mrs Whitely had told her she too would retire soon, handed more duties across to her, more keys and books. Within the year she donned the black dresses of Housekeeper and knew a door had closed quite firmly behind her.

  
The teas began again, in her sitting room or his parlour, walks to church and around the grounds, but they spoke of linen rotations, of maids in the scullery and footman smoking in the kitchens. He did not call her Elsie and he was never Charles. 

  
She found the ring when Lady Mary was presented, took his waistcoat to mend while he stood in his shirt sleeves and apron and polished the silver just one more time.

  
It fell out in her hand as she settled into her chair, caught the light of the gas lamps and shone up from her palm.

  
Such a little thing, simple but for the silver filigree, the little twist that made it different, something more. It reminded her of him, the man who had met her at the backdoor her first day, took her coat and bag and led her to the kitchens, settled her nerves with tea and conversation, made her laugh in this strange new place. He should have been just another man, just another servant in a House of many, but there had been the curl that would not behave, the eyebrows that rose and fell with his surprise, the gentle heart beneath the livery. 

  
She had known, the metal warming against her skin, that he meant it for her, knew too when he must have bought it; saw him in her mind now, touching his pocket, a quirk she had noticed only after he began his training for Butler. 

  
She looked at it, considered the inscription she could feel with her thumb. Would it be her name, his? Would it quote a phrase or endearment, say the words he had never said to her?

  
She slipped it back into his pocket without looking, could not bear to, not now.

  
With white thread she fixed his loose button, tightened the others to be certain. Kept her tears away from the garment and wished hearts could be so easily mended. That they could break only once and not over again.

  
{She would have said _yes_ , would have said it to Charles the Under-Butler, to Mr Carson the Butler. Would have said it had he been demoted to Footman or run from the House in disgrace. If he had only asked.}

  
She has never spoken of it, tries not to notice when he feels for it at his waist, doesn’t look for the line of it in his pocket. 

  
She found a family in the servants, a daughter and son, another, another with each maid and footman; even Miss O’Brien, even Mr Barrow.

  
The anger faded, the pain lessened, she remembers what they had with fondness, what they almost had wistfully, she mends his clothes and mops his brow. She loves him as a wife would, acts at the very edges of how a Housekeeper should. 

  
When he spoke of leaving she brought the ring to mind, reminded herself that their friendship survived that, it could surely survive the distance to Haxby.

  
She fell ill and she did not tell him, could not tell him, was glad for it when she saw him reach for the ring more often after Mrs Patmore’s slip; he would have asked her, she knows, if she had said anything to him. She still wants him, will always want that life with him, but not because she is dying. Not because the consequences would not matter for long. {He was her Charles again for a moment, a song, the day her results come back. He sang for her, bounced his silver tray on his hand and sang and she thought; _ask me now_ , but of course he did not.}

  
He told her of Alice, the girl he wished to marry so much he could taste it and she wondered, as he looked at her, if he meant Alice at all.

  
They are getting older now, the days seem longer, the world not so very much theirs to grasp as theirs to hand over and still she fixes his shirts, darns his socks. They sit together for tea, talk of the house and the servants, gossip once again. He raises his eyebrows, makes her laugh and she wonders sometimes, if she asked, if he might just juggle for her again.

  
They are buying a property together, an investment for when _they_ retire.

  
He has held her hand, at the beach, in the quiet dark of his parlour; the sherry glasses catching the last of the fire’s light.

  
One day he will reach for her hand and she will reach for his face, will cup his chin and stroke his cheek will press her lips to his and feel him press back.

  
He will give her the ring and she will pretend to be shocked, will listen as he tells her when he bought it, how long he has carried it with him.

  
One day, when they sit in their bed, his arms around her waist, her head on his chest, she will tell him she forgives him, that it might not have been the life they had once imagined, but they have spent it together and it has been good.

  
{She will finally learn the secret of the words written on the band.}

  
If she is lucky, if she can still read him as well as she believes; she thinks that day might be very soon.


End file.
